Han Areum sat curled on a plush armchair by the balcony window of a high rise condominium, soft winter light spilling across the warm wooden floor. The curtains stirred in the crisp breeze, carrying the faint scent of frost-covered herbs from the balcony garden outside.
Beyond the window stretched the Capitol—a city that resembled Seoul, South Korea, but with its edges sharpened and elevated. Towering glass buildings rose in geometric harmony, their surfaces sleek and mirror-like, reflecting the pale winter sun.
Below, high-speed trains glided soundlessly between ultramodern stations, while luxury cars with tinted windows cruised beneath neatly trimmed trees lining the boulevards.
The condo sat high above it all—soundproofed from the bustle, yet perched like a private observatory in the capital's elite district.
Areum gazed out at the balcony, admiring the herb garden she had carefully cultivated. The space had been transformed into a vertical garden, with tiers of wooden frames supporting rows of potted herbs—rosemary, thyme, lavender, peppermint, and others—arranged with purpose.
Despite the snowfall blanketing the Capitol, many of the plants retained a vibrant, almost unnatural green, brimming with vitality.
Even more astounding was the faint, easy-to-miss glow that seemed to shimmer around them.
Nestled between the planters were crystal clusters—clear quartz, smoky quartz, moss agate, and malachite—positioned in intentional geometric formations.
Their placement wasn't random.
Areum had built crystal grids throughout the balcony, designed to amplify the plants' mana absorption rate. The balcony wasn't just for show—it was a living, breathing sanctuary, both practical and energetic, quietly nourishing all the plants near it, and anchoring her peace of mind in a world ruled by status and control.
She pulled her gaze away from the garden, redirecting her focus to the task at hand.
Curled on a deep emerald sofa, Areum balanced a notebook in her lap. Her cardigan sleeves slipped past her wrists, revealing only her fingertips as she wrote in quiet concentration.
The room was still, save for the scratch of her pen and the rustle of pages.
Areum was trying to piece together everything she knew about the romance novel All For My Dearest.
Why?
Because it had been six years since she transmigrated into the body of a character in that very novel.
She hadn't expected much when she picked up the book in her previous life. The synopsis promised a typical high school romance where the female protagonist was pampered by a group of wealthy boys.
And the more she read, the more convinced she became that she wasn't wrong.
The world of All For My Dearest was set in a nation much like the one from her previous life—modern, fast-paced, quietly divided by class. At its center was the Capitol, a city of gleaming skyscrapers, polished marble corridors, and legacy families who ruled behind the scenes.
Citizens voted and headlines trended, but true power rested with the old names.
At the top stood the Four Pillars.
The Ryu Group led the country's defense and tech sectors, its empire spanning weapons manufacturing, military systems, robotics, and consumer electronics. With sleek smartphones, cutting-edge laptops, and government contracts, it held both national influence and international reach.
The Han Group had built its legacy through control over mineral resources and urban development. From mining raw materials to constructing cities, it shaped both the landscape and the economy. Its presence wasn't loud—but it was everywhere.
The Eun Group dominated healthcare. Known for biotech breakthroughs, advanced hospital systems, and global pharmaceutical influence, its pristine laboratories and glass-panel clinics became synonymous with modern medicine. Eun didn't just treat illness—it shaped the future of human wellness.
The Jin Group controlled image and influence. As the unrivaled force in entertainment, fashion, and luxury goods, it molded culture at home and abroad. With major studios, fashion houses, and influencer networks under its belt, the Jin name was more than powerful—it was iconic. Its heirs weren't just executives; they were stars, born and raised to shine.
But the novel didn't focus on the adults who built these empires. It followed their teenage children.
At its heart was Han Soyun, daughter of the Han Group's president and protagonist of All For My Dearest.
The main story began at Daehyun Academy, the most prestigious high school in the country. Backed by elite donors, Daehyun admitted only the children of powerful families. A few scholarship students made it through each year, but those seats were fiercely contested.
Soyun and her twin brother, Han Minjae, enrolled as heirs of the Han Group. Alongside them were their longtime friends: Ryu Seungjae of the Ryu Group, Jin Taehwan of the Jin Group, and Eun Siyoon of the Eun Group. Together, they formed an exclusive inner circle that the rest of the school either envied, feared, or tried desperately to impress.
But the arrival of Ryu Haejin—the male lead—changed everything.
Smart, composed, and quietly resilient, he had earned his spot purely on merit. The illegitimate son of the Ryu Group chairman and a former pianist, Haejin resented the hush money that had followed his mother's affair and the lack of freedom in having to navigate life as a result. Determined to confront the world that cast him aside, he won a scholarship to Daehyun to prove his worth.
To the public, his identity was a mystery. Among the elites, his surname sparked suspicion. In weeks, it was an open secret.
His presence disrupted the fragile hierarchy.
And it provoked Ryu Seungjae.
Ryu Seungjae, Soyun's fiancé, was raised beneath the crushing weight of expectation—groomed from the cradle to become the next head of the Ryu Group. He was expected to be flawless, feared, and untouchable.
His mother, born with a congenital heart condition, died of a heart attack the moment she discovered his father's long-standing affair.
His father moved on without pause. His grandparents barely reacted. In the cold silence that followed, something in Seungjae quietly fractured.
What emerged wasn't just a troubled teenager—it was a boy who found solace in control and pleasure in violence. He became the most feared student not because he was angry, but because he wasn't. Because he enjoyed it. The calm with which he broke others was more terrifying than any rage could be.
To Seungjae, Haejin wasn't just an interloper—he was a reminder of everything Seungjae had lost: a mother, a sense of home. Seungjae utilized influence, intimidation, and manipulation.
Teachers turned, allies rallied, and Haejin was quietly isolated, harassed, and beaten.
At first, Soyun tried to rationalize her fiancé's behavior. But as Haejin endured the onslaught with quiet resilience, her sympathy shifted. She couldn't ignore the contrast.
With Seungjae, no matter how close she stood, he remained hard to read. His volatility was unpredictable, unmanageable—a storm she could never tame or redirect.
And though he never disrespected her as his fiancée, Soyun was still a teenage girl. Respect alone wasn't enough. She longed for passion. For warmth. For devotion. A love she could fall into without fear. One that revolved around her—not out of duty, but out of desire.
Ryu Haejin, by contrast, knew how to be gentle. He was openly caring, romantic, and carried the kind of princely charm teenage girls often dreamed of.
He wasn't just polite and well-mannered—he made people feel seen, valued, and chosen.
Seungjae's world was a quiet chaos, always on the verge of eruption. Haejin's was a euphoric bubble—light, warm, easy to breathe in. And in that contrast, Soyun's heart slowly, inevitably, began to drift toward him.
Yet even as her heart leaned toward Haejin, she hesitated.
He was the son of a woman who had shattered a family—a mirror of her own pain. Her father, too, had fathered a child outside of marriage. Since the secret came to light, her household had never been the same.
Loving Haejin would mean confronting wounds she had buried.
But, as in all romance stories, the couple eventually worked through their pain.
Together, they healed. Together, they found happiness.
Soyun's growing closeness with Haejin sent quiet ripples through their tight-knit group of heirs. Jin Taehwan, the second male lead, naturally sided with Soyun. He had harbored a quiet crush on her for years, and though he never acted on it, his loyalty leaned wherever her heart did.
Eun Siyoon, on the other hand, chose silence. Calm and rational by nature, he hated conflict. To him, taking sides between friends felt like betrayal either way, and so he remained distant, helplessly watching the group fracture.
Overtime, the violence intensified—until one day, Seungjae went too far.
A student, a close friend of Haejin's, was caught in the crossfire and killed.
What had once been whispered about behind closed doors was now impossible to hide. Seungjae's brutality was documented, reported, and splashed across headlines.
The public outcry was immediate. Even the most powerful families could no longer look away.
Seungjae was expelled from Daehyun Academy, stripped of his heir status, and sent abroad—discarded by his father like a puppet no longer useful.
And so, Han Soyun and Ryu Haejin finally got their happily ever after.
That was how All For My Dearest ended. A tale of love overcoming trauma. Of healing. Of triumph.
It was the story of how the female protagonist, Han Soyun, overcame emotional and social obstacles to be with Haejin, the male lead.
Along the way, her twin brother Minjae and their close friend Jin Taehwan—who quietly harbored feelings for her—stood by her, offering protection, influence, and unwavering support. Together, they ensured nothing stood in the way of the future she chose.
That was the story the author wanted readers to care about.
Han Areum sighed and dropped her pen.
Out of all the characters she could have become, she had to transmigrate into the one who died in the first chapter.
A character who shared her name. A plot device never mentioned again.
According to the novel, Han Areum was born from scandal—the daughter of Shin Jiwon, a former secretary who drugged Han Sanghyun, president of the Han Group, on the eve of his engagement to Yoon Sera, a woman from a wealthy household.
Disgusted by the deceit, Sanghyun covered it up and imprisoned Jiwon in a heavily guarded mansion at the edge of the Capitol. If not for the pregnancy, she would've been erased.
With Han Sanghyun's power and connections, Jiwon's existence was erased from public record. She was denied a title, and her daughter, born out of wedlock—Han Areum—was denied any right to compete for recognition, status, or inheritance.
Desperate for a share of the Han legacy, Jiwon began pushing Areum beyond her limits from the age of two.
By the age of ten, Areum collapsed during a violin competition—worn down by illness and exhaustion.
It was a devastating blow for Jiwon—this competition had been the first time her daughter was set to compete against Han Soyun, the story's protagonist, a chance for Areum to finally prove her worth as a superior, well-rounded talent.
When they returned home, Jiwon, overwhelmed by frustration and years of buried resentment, snapped. She hadn't meant to hurt her daughter too badly—but she lost control.
She pushed her daughter too hard.
Areum struck her head on the edge of a table and died.
Jiwon had already lost her grip on reality years before this, consumed by rejection and envy. Her daughter's death sealed the nail in the coffin, and what little sanity she had left unraveled completely into a psychotic breakdown.
The moment Han Sanghyun was informed of Areum's death, he lost his composure in a way no one in his professional circle had ever seen.
During an emergency board meeting that same afternoon, he abruptly walked out mid-presentation, pale and visibly shaken.
Witnesses reported him shouting at his secretary in the hallway—an unusual break from his normally cold and measured demeanor. That evening, instead of returning to his residence, he was seen entering a restricted hospital morgue unaccompanied, wearing no disguise.
The security footage leaked. The media pounced.
As the residing president of Han Group, Sanghyun's every move was tracked by paparazzi, rivals, and political spies. Soon, headlines broke the story: Han Sanghyun had a mistress and an illegitimate child—one who had just died.
His wife, Yoon Sera, along with their children— Soyun and Minjae—was blindsided.
Areum's death forced her existence into the spotlight, fracturing the pristine image of Han family. It caused Sanghyun to be swallowed by guilt for neglecting his child, and plunged his wife, Yoon Sera, into paranoia, leading to unrest in the household.
It ignited Soyun's slow-burning distrust of her father and men in general.
But it was necessary.
If Areum had lived, Sanghyun would have kept her and Jiwon hidden forever. No scandal, no rupture, no trauma. And without trauma, Soyun's path with Haejin would have been too easy. Too clean.
The author needed the dramatic mess to entice the readers.
Only at the novel's end did Soyun learn the truth: her father had been drugged, not unfaithful. But by then, the damage had been done—and the story had found its hook.
Areum's life had been brief. Her voice, erased.
And that was supposed to be the end.
But the new Areum—the one who had transmigrated into this world—couldn't let go of how the author had reduced her suffering to a backstory.
The pressure. The abuse. The isolation.
She knew it all too well, because she had woken up in that girl's body… a day after the fatal blow to her head.